


looked like a teenage runaway

by sadwhales



Series: Teenage Runaway [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24793030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadwhales/pseuds/sadwhales
Summary: Ian is seventeen when he moves to the South Side. Lip tells him to stay away from the wrong people, but no one remembers to warn him not to fall in love with the neighborhood thug.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Teenage Runaway [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801672
Comments: 75
Kudos: 441





	looked like a teenage runaway

**Author's Note:**

> It's Shameless, so there's the usual drinking & smoking. This also contains a mild (attempted?) bullying scene and references to homophobic hate crimes. Nothing bad happens during this story, though, it's a pretty happy one!
> 
> Title is from the Bleachers song "Rollercoaster".
> 
> Let me know what you think xoxo

It’s not like Ian’s an idiot or anything. He just isn’t used to the South Side.

Here’s the thing.

Despite Ian’s last name, Frank Gallagher, the infamous and miserable neighborhood drunk of Canaryville isn’t his real father. Ian’s never been too bummed out about that. For most of his life, he’s lived on the North Side with his actual father, Frank’s estranged brother, in this sterile and protected environment. It’s been nice, mostly, although Ian’s always felt that he isn’t _quite_ like the other North Side kids, rougher around the edges, more inclined to fight dirty and smoke under the bleachers during lunch.

He thinks his half-siblings are to blame. He’s always hung out with them a lot, especially Lip, his arrogant smart-ass of an older brother who delivers the coolest stories from the neighborhood. Ian knows, realistically, that he’s lucky. He’s never had to worry about being safe when he’s walking home at night, or about having his basic needs met. Still, sometimes he can’t help but feel admiring, almost jealous, when he listens to Lip talk about the fights he’s gotten into, or the rowdy barbecues in the Gallaghers’ backyard.

Now, though, Ian’s seventeen, and his father’s job has him flying to Europe for an entire year, which means that Ian is temporarily moving in with his siblings. There is maybe a part of him that’s a little sad to say goodbye to his dad, but the change of environment is an exciting one, and the time he gets to spend with his brothers and sisters is only a plus.

“Stay away from the wrong people”, is what Lip says to him the morning of Ian’s first day, clapping him on the shoulder, fixing him with a stern look, like Ian isn’t already nearly a head taller than him.

Ian does. It’s stressful, switching to a completely new school, but Ian feels like he’s doing alright; he sits in English class and doesn’t raise his hand even though he knows the answer to most of the questions. He doesn’t go around introducing himself but hangs out during recess with a girl who lent him a pencil. He acts friendly but tries not to seem like he’s into her. No one tries to kick the shit out of him, which means that his first day is pretty much a success.

That’s South Side for you, Ian figures.

On the fourth day at lunch, he finds the football field in order to have a smoke in peace.

When he walks towards the bleachers, he sees that there’s already a guy standing under them, alone, smoke from his cigarette curling slowly towards the sky and blending into the gray backdrop of clouds.

Ian squints, treks cautiously closer. The guy somehow looks like he probably isn’t a high school student, but he doesn’t look old enough to be, like, some _weirdo_ just hanging around high schoolers either.

The guy’s obviously noticed that he isn’t alone. His eyes follow Ian suspiciously as he approaches. From this distance, Ian can make out messy black hair, features pinched into a frown.

Ian’s almost walked all the way over to the guy when he suddenly feels awkward. Maybe it’s weird to go too close, especially when there’s no one else around. The guy might think Ian’s trying to start something. On the other hand, if Ian looks like he wants to keep his distance, the guy might think he’s a pussy. Which he is not. If someone looks like a pussy, they’re going to get their ass kicked, and even though Ian can hold his own in a fight, he isn’t particularly eager to start throwing fists in his first week.

That settles it. Ian heads over confidently, stops only a few feet away. The guy doesn’t say anything, but he’s definitely looking at Ian, who focuses on patting down his coat for his pack of Marlboros.

After he’s fished out one, he turns to the guy. “Think I could borrow a light?”

He has a lighter, in the front pocket of his jeans, but it’s the only way he can think of to start a conversation. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to do that, or if it will just piss the guy off. If there’s a South Side code, no one’s told Ian about it. He’s taking shots in the dark here.

The guy stares for a moment, blue eyes fixed on Ian as if he’s trying to figure out if the question has an ulterior motive. He’s still frowning, not like he’s angry, but like it’s just his standard expression. His nose and the tips of his ears are pink from the cold. It’s sort of cute.

And no wonder, Ian thinks, he doesn’t have a coat or even gloves, only a thin gray hoodie, and it’s _November_. Jesus. He must be freezing.

The guy doesn’t say anything, only reaches into his pocket and hands Ian a lighter. He has something tattooed across his knuckles, but Ian doesn’t have time to read it. This _could_ potentially be the “wrong people” Lip talked about, but the fact that rather than stabbing Ian the guy actually lent him a lighter indicates otherwise. Besides, despite the tattoos and the general air of crankiness, Ian doesn’t find this guy threatening at all now that there’s barely any distance between them.

“Thanks”, Ian says and sticks the cigarette between his lips, cups his hand around the flame.

When he hands the lighter back, the guy is crushing the previous butt under his boot. While he’s occupied with igniting a new one, cold-stiff fingers fumbling to work the lighter, Ian’s eyes flick to his mouth, pink, twisted irritably around the cigarette.

“You go to school here?” Ian asks to distract himself.

The guy makes a noise in his throat and puts the lighter away. “Fuck no.”

Ian isn’t sure why it’s a stupid question, but he makes a noise of agreement.

“Just. I’m new here”, he offers as an explanation.

The guy turns to him fully again, eyebrows cocked. “Yeah, no shit.”

He isn’t smiling, but he does sound kind of amused. It’s a step away from scowling, Ian guesses.

The guy seems like he isn’t going to offer any further explanations, so Ian gestures vaguely around them. “It’s a weird place to have a smoke.”

“ _You’re_ having a smoke here”, the guy points out, slowly, like he wants to make sure it’s clear that Ian’s an idiot.

“I’m also a _student_ here.” It comes out sounding somewhat snotty. Shit, Ian doesn’t want to come across like he thinks he’s better than everyone here; he might still get punched merely for being the new kid.

What he gets is another moment of silence. The guy’s looking at him like he’s trying to figure Ian out, like he has no idea why he’s getting bothered by some North Side kid on his suspicious cigarette break under the high school bleachers.

“You’re North Side, right?” he asks, like he’s read Ian’s mind.

Ian nods, sort of displeased it’s that obvious.

“I’m collecting a payment”, the guy says. “You know. Coke. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of that up north.”

Not like Ian has any first-hand experience. “You’re a dealer?”

The guy chuckles and glances away. “Not really.”

Ian doesn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he studies the guy, trying not to look like he’s subtly checking him out. The guy really seems like he’s cold, and the flimsy hoodie isn’t doing much for him; the fingers holding the cigarette are trembling, and his tense shoulders keep shuddering jerkily. He more he’s shivering, the angrier he seems to get.

“Where’s your coat?” Ian asks and throws the butt on the grass, crushes it with his shoe.

The guy glares at him, and it clearly means _none of your fucking business_. He doesn’t say that. Instead, he grunts: “Forgot it.”

Ian doubts that. “How long ‘til your guy comes?”

“Dunno.”

“Well”, Ian says and shrugs off his own coat without thinking it further. “I’ve got to go. Wouldn’t wanna miss chemistry.”

Ian holds out the coat to him, and the guy stares like Ian just offered to suck his dick. His gaze shifts from the piece of clothing to Ian’s face, and for the first time during their bordering-on-weird-and-awkward conversation, his eyes fully meet Ian’s. They’re so fucking blue, and even Ian’s not gay enough to start waxing poetic about dudes’ eyes, but _holy shit_. They’re so fucking blue and pretty and paired with the jet-black hair, the guy looks like some fucked up Snow White of Ian’s equally fucked up fantasies.

Snow White glares angrily at the coat. “What the fuck?”

Ian tries to suck the air back into his lungs, shakes the coat a bit. “You can borrow it. I don’t need it today.”

“Fuck no.”

“It’s not a big deal”, Ian says. “Take it, I don’t care.”

The guy hesitates. Then, looking suspicious as shit, he snatches the coat out of Ian’s hand.

“See ya”, Ian says, smiling, and heads back to class.

He might be just a little too pleased for the rest of the day, thinking about a cute guy wearing his coat.

Okay, so, the problem is that the coat Ian gave the cute guy was Ian’s only warm one. Which means he needs it back at some point. He doesn’t expect it to be the very next day, when he sneaks back to the bleachers during lunch in the hopes of seeing the guy again.

But there he is. He’s smoking again, wearing a different coat, eyes tracking Ian as he approaches.

When Ian reaches him, he shoves the bundle of fabric he’s been clutching tightly under his arm into Ian’s lap. It’s Ian’s coat.

“Thanks”, the guy mumbles around his cigarette.

He looks warmer than he did yesterday, but when Ian looks closely, he sees the spots of color high on his cheeks.

“Don’t worry about it”, Ian says, smiling like an idiot.

The guy glares at him. “Can’t help being a fucking do-gooder, huh, North Side?”

It doesn’t sound like an outright insult. There might even be a teasing note underneath.

“It’s Ian.”

“Yeah?” The guy says, sizing him up, a whole different look in his eyes than the day before.

“You know, this whole ‘meeting new people -thing’ usually goes both ways.”

The guy snorts, kind of like he’s surprised. Ian’s focused on the way it makes his eyes crinkle.

“Mickey.”

“Hi, Mickey.”

The guy – _Mickey_ – shakes his head and looks away like Ian’s being weird. Maybe he is, borderline flirting with a drug-dealing, knuckle-tattooed guy he barely knows on the South Side, under the high school bleachers. Mickey doesn’t seem too opposed, though.

“Get your money yesterday?”

“Damn right I did”, Mickey grins, obviously pleased with himself. “Didn’t even have to bash any heads in.” He flicks the cigarette butt over his shoulder. “All cozy and warm while I waited, too.”

“Are you on duty today?” Ian asks, gestures around the bleachers.

“Nah, man”, Mickey says. “Told you, I’m not a fucking dealer. I don’t stand here every day selling weed to some snot-nosed teenagers.”

“You stand here just for fun?” Ian looks pointedly at the spot where Mickey’s standing. The exact same spot where he’d stood yesterday.

“What is this, Twenty fucking Questions? Are we at a middle-school sleepover?”

“You don’t _have_ to answer”, Ian tells him, though he wants nothing more than to keep the conversation going.

Mickey seems to consider. Then he shrugs one shoulder. “Had to give your fucking coat back, didn’t I?”

Ian is surprised by the answer’s sincerity. He smiles despite Mickey’s annoyed expression, or maybe because of it. “I wasn’t sure I was getting it back.”

“I look like a fucking criminal to you, Freckles?”

Mickey looks genuinely offended, and Ian can’t help it. He snorts so violently it hurts a bit, laughs harder when Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Ian has to look away to collect himself.

“Are you ki- You look _exactly_ like a criminal!” Ian gestures at his tattoos. “You literally told me _yesterday_ that you’re selling cocaine!”

Mickey’s incredulous expression softens a bit. He bites down on his lip but Ian’s sure the corner of his mouth quirks slightly. It’s really fucking attractive. The laughter’s left a weird, bubbly feeling in Ian’s chest, and it only tightens further under Mickey’s stare.

“Why’d you give it to me, then?”

The question catches Ian off guard, and he has to take a few seconds to remember what they had been talking about. Mickey looks surprisingly serious now, almost uneasy, like he genuinely has no idea what the answer might be. Like he thinks there’s some catch, after all.

Ian hesitates. It’d been, truthfully, partly because he apparently likes the whole grumpy, cute, blue-eyed thug thing, but partly because Mickey had been the first person here he’d, weirdly, felt comfortable around, wanted to have a whole conversation with.

“You looked like you were gonna fucking freeze to death”, Ian settles on saying. “And like you were probably too stubborn to do anything but stand there and do that.”

Mickey narrows his eyes and Ian tries to not feel defensive. He might be too comfortable with his sexuality considering the neighborhood he’s in. He has to remind himself that Mickey talking shit with him doesn’t necessarily mean he’s interested, or that he won’t break Ian’s face if he realizes Ian’s flirting.

“What?” Ian huffs, agitated by Mickey’s silence. Fuck his family, apparently, for teaching him that sometimes in life you should try not being a dick to people. “You’re not allowed to do a nice thing around here?”

“I don’t know”, Mickey tilts his head. There’s an amused edge to his voice. “Might be against the law. Better tone it down before you get in trouble, North Side.”

The way he says it, slow and deliberate, sends something down Ian’s spine and makes his cheeks a little hot. It sounds an _awful_ lot like flirting.

“It’s Ian”, he says, managing to not break eye contact.

Mickey smirks lopsidedly, a sight that goes straight to Ian’s dick, turns around and walks off, across the football field.

“See you around, Firecrotch! Don’t give your coat to criminals!” he shouts without looking back at Ian.

“It’s Ian!” he shouts back when he gets his mouth to work. He’s not sure if Mickey hears him.

Ian’s willing to admit that he might have a tiny little crush on Mickey. He also might be a little distracted all weekend because of it.

“Hey, Earth to Ian Gallagher”, he hears before a rolled-up pair of socks hits him in the head. Ian whips around to find Lip staring at him front the top bunk.

“Hm?” Ian says, still absently thinking about how Mickey’s ass looked as he was walking away.

“I asked if you wanted to get White Castle today. Debbie said something about a family night, to celebrate your first full week on the wrong side of the river.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

“Dude, what is up with you?” Lip frowns, hops off the bunk to sit beside Ian on the floor. “You homesick or something?”

Ian waves it off, slightly irritated at the implication that this isn’t as much a home to him as the one he’d lived with his dad. All his siblings are here, after all.

“No, just something on my mind.”

He must be smiling stupidly again as soon as his thoughts shift back to Mickey, because suddenly Lip looks sly. He nudges Ian with an elbow.

“Or some _one_ , dare I say. Has my brother already sniffed out the first South Side gay guy?” he huffs. “Jesus, Ian, is it possible for you to _not_ get laid? I think I’m almost jealous.”

“I don’t know if he’s gay”, Ian admits. “But I like him, so maybe I’ve sniffed out a friend, at least.”

At that, Lip looks a bit more serious. “You’ve got to be careful, though. It’s different here, there’s some real nasty people in this neighborhood. They don’t need an excuse to beat you up, so, you know. Don’t give them one.”

“Alright”, Ian agrees, tries to lighten the mood. “I won’t suck any dicks without asking first.”

Lip laughs and shoves at his side, pretending to be grossed out.

Monday comes, and so does another unexpected encounter with Mickey.

Ian’s in the yard, perched on one of those shabby tables, the wood damp and disgusting from the cold rain. He’s comparing English notes with Emily – the girl who lent him a pencil – when she gasps quietly.

“Oh, shit.”

Ian looks up, expecting to see a fight or a police chase or something else mildly exciting. Instead, he only sees the gray schoolyard.

He turns to Emily. “What?”

She points to the distance. “Someone’s getting a serious beatdown.”

Ian tries follows her line of sight, squinting. He almost doesn’t recognize Mickey, mostly because he isn’t used to seeing him anywhere but the bleachers.

It is Mickey, though. He’s approaching, baseball bat in hand, with two huge, gorilla-looking dudes in tow. He does look threatening, scowl on his face and swagger in his step, but Ian can’t help noticing how small he is compared to his steroid-pumped accomplices. It’s kind of funny.

It’s not until Emily tugs at his elbow, hard, that Ian realizes he’s staring. And smiling. Fuck.

“Are you fucking crazy?” she hisses. “ _You_ wanna get a beatdown? Stop fucking looking at them!”

She sounds genuinely scared. A quick glance around reveals that the other students gathered around the tables seem just as tense, hunching over in their seats and looking away from the approaching group with uncomfortable expressions.

Ian looks back to his notes to get Emily to chill out, but as Mickey passes their table, he can’t help but sneak another glance. Mickey doesn’t look at them, keeps his angry stare straight ahead and doesn’t give any indication that he knows Ian. He can probably tell that he’s being watched, though, because there’s a slight shift in his expression, his mouth tightening and gaze sharpening.

When they’re out of sight, Ian turns back to Emily.

“What was that about?”

“Someone owes them something”, she shrugs. “Or messed with one of them. Or they just felt like shattering some kneecaps.” Her voice goes serious. “Look, you’re new here, but this is something you’ve got to learn. You wanna be safe, you wanna _survive_ , stay the fuck away from the Milkoviches.”

“What?” Ian fights the instinct to laugh incredulously. That sounds a little dramatic.

Emily must see that Ian isn’t taking her too seriously, because she grabs his arm, shakes him irritably. “I mean it, they’re seriously messed up. Especially Mickey. I heard he stabbed a guy who took the last cup of Jell-o when he was in juvie. The guy _died_.”

She isn’t kidding, Ian realizes. Something doesn’t add up. Sure, looking at Mickey, Ian can easily believe he doesn’t have a problem throwing a few punches, but at this point, Ian’s had two full conversations with the guy. If Mickey’s idea of fun really was beating people up over nothing, Ian’s pretty sure his badly concealed attempts at flirting would qualify as a motive.

That day, Ian nearly runs to the bleachers, not completely sure why. He’s certain (or maybe stubbornly hoping) that Mickey will be there.

He is, standing on the usual spot, shoulders hunched, and eyes focused on Ian half-jogging towards him. When Ian comes to a stop, he can’t think of a non-insolent way to ask what he wants to ask, which makes him look like an idiot who just made a dramatic entrance for nothing. Mickey doesn’t say a word, either, only eyes at Ian warily, like he’s waiting for something.

“So, uh”, Ian starts, awkwardly, to break the silence. “Milkovich, huh?”

Mickey looks caught off guard. “Yeah.”

“Is that, like… Russian?”

“Fuck no”, Mickey scoffs, recovering quickly from his initial confusion. “Ukrainian”, he adds, more quietly.

Not like there’s a huge difference to Ian, but he nods anyway. He shifts on his feet, waits for Mickey to add something more to the conversation. He doesn’t, and Ian can’t hold back anymore.

“What’s the deal with you?” he blurts out. “You and your brothers, are you like… in the _mafia_ or something?”

“In the mafia?” Mickey echoes. “What the fuck kind of movies have you been watching?”

When he says it out loud like that, it does seem a little ridiculous. Mickey can’t be much older than Ian. Besides, Ian suspects that the mafia wouldn’t bother beating up high school students.

“So what is it? Why’s everyone acting like you’re gonna slit their throats if they look you in the eye?”

Now Mickey looks uncomfortable, for some reason. He shrugs, fingers flexing almost nervously at his sides.

“Got to be respected, right?” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a real explanation. Instead, it’s forced, too dismissive not to be rehearsed.

“More like feared.”

“Same fucking thing, ain’t it?” Mickey grunts, fishes a pack of smokes from his coat.

“Not really”, Ian says. Then, because he can’t help himself: “My friend told me you killed a guy over a cup of Jell-o.”

“The fuck does your friend know about me?” Mickey spits out, surprising venom in his voice. Then he pauses, sticks a cigarette into his mouth, and lights it a bit too aggressively, not quite meeting Ian’s eyes. “What do you think, North Side? Am I a psycho murderer?”

Ian considers his answer, but only briefly. “No. I don’t think so. But I am kind of curious now.”

He isn’t lying. Inexplicably, being alone with Mickey doesn’t make him any more nervous than he’d been before. Mostly, he’s confused by Mickey’s apparent infamy, and eager to hear what Mickey himself has to say about it.

Something in Mickey’s expression changes, opens. His eyes snap to Ian’s. “You’re curious?” His voice is flat.

Ian shrugs. “Sure. So you’re not a psycho. Tell me the real story, then.”

Mickey snorts, more disbelief than amusement. “Christ, you really are from the North Side, huh?” He takes a drag, blows the smoke out of his nostrils. Then he tips his head forward, seemingly considering his next words. When he speaks, his voice is serious. “I didn’t kill anyone. I stabbed him with a fucking plastic fork, the shithead barely needed a band-aid. But the rumor mill’s always running, you know.”

“But you did beat someone up with a baseball bat today.”

Mickey looks up, gives him a small grin, like he’s letting Ian in on a secret. “Hey, I never said I did nothing to earn my reputation.”

It shouldn’t make Ian smile back, but it does. It shouldn’t make his dick twitch in his jeans a little bit, but it does.

“Come on”, he presses. “Tell me something else. Your own words. Who’s this Mickey Milkovich I keep hearing so much about?”

“Seriously? You hear all that shit and you decide you wanna listen to my fucking life story?”

“Absolutely.”

Mickey rolls his eyes but can’t conceal his amusement. “You’re a stubborn fucking dick.”

“So I’ve heard.” Ian tucks a cigarette between his own lips to show Mickey he fully intends to stand there and hear him talk.

Mickey’s expression is one of disbelief, eyebrows near his hairline, but he automatically hands Ian a lighter. Ian’s own is still in the front pocket of his jeans.

At Ian’s silent insistence, Mickey relents. He tells Ian about his family, the kind of business they do: dealing drugs, stealing and selling shit, roughing up people that need roughing up. His father is the leader of the operation, but Mickey and his brothers have been doing the dirty work ever since they were little.

Ian’s not that surprised. It seems like Mickey’s way better known on the South Side that Ian had initially thought, but also like a good portion of his fame is based on wild rumors and shit his dad has done. Mickey’s the type of guy that enjoys being able to put the fear of God into people by cracking his knuckles and glaring a bit. Ian gets why it wouldn’t be smart to get on the wrong side of him, but he’s having a truly hard time seeing Mickey the way he’d been described by Emily. Ian doesn’t understand how the Mickey smoking and cracking mean jokes under the bleachers in his too-big winter coat can terrify every single one of Ian’s classmates.

Mickey’s easy to talk to. He’s funny and expressive and Ian can’t get enough of how his nose turns pink in the cold and how he gnaws on his lower lip when he’s thinking. Ian couldn’t be scared of him if he tried.

Nearly two weeks pass, and they meet at the bleachers almost every day, like a wordless agreement. They’re becoming actual friends.

Mickey laughs out loud when he hears Ian’s last name. They’re sitting on the damp ground, drinking the beer Ian smuggled in his backpack. Every now and then, Mickey offers him a swig from the flask he keeps inside his coat.

“Christ, like there wasn’t enough Gallaghers already. The fuck d’you keep popping up from? They sending more from Ireland as we speak?”

Mickey’s face is bright and relaxed when he smiles, _really_ smiles, and Ian wants to keep seeing it. He can’t even muster up real annoyance at the teasing, but he shoves Mickey anyway, just to feel the solid body under his hands. Mickey leans over to elbow Ian in the ribs, and when he pulls away, they’re maybe sitting a little closer than earlier. They both have winter coats on, but Ian imagines he can feel the warmth of Mickey’s skin even through the layers of clothes.

Ian tells him about stuff he never told any of his friends. Well, he’s not sure if he ever had any real friends. He sat with his classmates in the cafeteria, chatted idly, had no trouble finding partners for chemistry projects, but at the same time, Ian never felt like he had much in common with anyone. He was an inbetweener, of sorts: too disdainful of the pretentious and performative nature of his schoolmates’ life on the North Side, too cautious and ambitious to completely throw away his own life and education.

He didn’t know how lonely he was, not until he moved into a house full of family, not until he met Mickey.

Ian tells him about his weird family, about stupid, mundane stuff like Carl setting things on fire or Lip screwing up his chances with his girlfriends. He tells Mickey that he misses his dad sometimes despite swearing he wouldn’t, and Mickey scoffs but Ian knows he’s listening. Ian tells him things he can’t tell his siblings, how he sometimes feels guilty about living with them because they barely have enough money to scrape by, and even though Ian’s dad left him enough to pay for his own share of expenses, he wishes he could help them more. How he feels like money is and always has been this big rift between them.

“They’re your family, man”, Mickey just says. He isn’t trying to be reassuring, doesn’t try to convince Ian he’s loved no matter what, but somehow it makes Ian feel a little better.

In turn, he hears about how Mickey’s a high-school dropout, “fucked for life”, in his own words, instead focusing on crime like his entire family. When Ian asks him if he’d like to do something else instead, Mickey rolls his eyes and says “yeah, right”, but looks a little bitter. Mickey talks about his sister, calls her a skank in a way Ian swears is fond, says that her and Ian would get along well because they’re both little bitches.

It’s fucking freeing. Ian doesn’t feel confined like he sometimes did living with his dad, and even the stress of being the new kid starts to melt away. In short, everything’s great. The only problem is that his crush on Mickey deepens every day, and Ian doesn’t know how to slow it down.

Lip ribs him occasionally about the obvious infatuation, but Ian doesn’t talk about Mickey at home despite the prodding. Ian knows his brother doesn’t trust his judgement at all, thinks Ian’s too optimistic and trusting for South Side, and letting him know who Ian’s spending his time with nowadays would, in Lip’s eyes, only prove him right. Ian’s not about to give him the satisfaction, especially since he’s _wrong_. So maybe Ian is optimistic, maybe he wants to see the best in people. There’s nothing wrong with that, and Lip can take his smug cynicism and shove it.

The point is, Lip knows exactly who Mickey is and would have no qualms about letting Ian know how stupid he’s being, having a crush on the neighborhood’s most notorious miscreant. Lip’s big-brother instinct would ensure that Ian would never see Mickey Milkovich again.

Honestly, Ian is surprised it takes as long as it does for someone to make the new kid their target. Despite the fact he expected it to happen at some point, it still manages to hit him square in the back of the head. Literally.

“Ey!”

It’s a basketball, Ian realizes as he listens to it bounce back onto the concrete behind him. He stumbles, whips around, hand shooting up to rub at his head more out of instinct than pain.

It takes one look around to locate the culprit. The broad-shouldered dude and his rat-faced sidekick aren’t exactly bothering to hide, instead standing in the middle of the sidewalk and staring at Ian with open malice.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, faggot”, the big guy barks.

Most likely it’s just an insult lacking imagination, not an actual dig at his sexuality, but Ian flinches slightly regardless. He doesn’t say anything, unsure if they are being assholes for the sake of being assholes, or if they want something from him.

 _Lunch money_ , Ian’s brain supplies stupidly, because that’s what every bully is always after in movies. It just goes to prove that the situation is pretty much uncharted territory for him, and that he might actually be somewhat fucked if it escalates further. In his old school, physical altercations were rare, and bullying was much more discreet.

Ian sizes the guys up. There are two of them, both taller than Ian, and the bigger one looks like a literal wrestler. They look like they’re not above fighting dirty. Ian could probably get a few punches in, but he’s not sure how long he would last against them both.

He takes a cautious step back, considering taking off running, even when the stubborn part of him tells him not to back off from a fight, not even here, _especially_ not here.

He’s too slow, though, because the guy takes three huge strides forward, grabs Ian by the collar of his shirt.

“You’re a Gallagher, right? Heard you’ve been living up north, why’s that? Too good for the South Side, huh?” He shakes Ian a bit. “Think you can live up there all rich and cozy and then come here, tryna show you’re better than everyone?”

Ian opens his mouth, closes it again. He’s too confused to respond, so dumbfounded that he forgets to feel properly threatened. Is he seriously being roughed up _for living somewhere else_?

The lack of reaction only serves to anger the guy further, it seems. “Are you deaf or something? Or just fucking stupid?” he growls, shakes Ian harder.

Okay, fuck this.

Ian grabs the guy’s arm, tries to push him away. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but you need to back-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because he’s forcibly thrown onto his ass. His palms sting from the scrape of concrete, his wrists ache from absorbing the impact, and he already sees the guy approaching, blocking his entire view of the street, thinks _oh shit, this is it, this guy’s gonna break my face_ , prepares to kick and bite because there’s no way he’s going down without dishing out at least one black eye. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, with an impressive _crack_ , the big dude’s knocked off his feet by someone punching him in the head.

Now they’re both on the ground, the big dude in a lot more pain judging by the already bleeding cut above his eyebrow and the strangled groan he lets out. To Ian’s absolute shock, Mickey’s standing above him with a look of complete disdain on his face. He keeps his eyes on the dude on the ground, like Ian isn’t there at all, but Ian feels like Mickey’s attention is on him regardless. Another guy, one that Ian now recognizes as Mickey’s brother, stands at his side, looking wholly disinterested in the situation.

Rat Face, who Ian had already forgotten, doesn’t even make an effort to defend his buddy. He takes one look at the Milkovich brothers and scrambles off on shaky legs.

The guy on the ground tries to lift himself onto his elbows, but Mickey promptly steps onto his chest, pushes down almost nonchalantly. Ian sits on his ass, dumbly, trying to feel a little less turned on by the sight of Mickey literally grinding his boot onto someone’s sternum. It’s not going very well.

The guy moans pitifully. “Ah, shit, what did I do?”

“Try being a sleazy dickbag”, Mickey says from between his teeth, leans closer. “Heard you were trying to harass my little sister, is that true?”

“No, please, I swear it’s not”, the guy whimpers and shields his face.

“No?” Mickey presses. Now his brother is eyeing them, too. Unlike Mickey, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge Ian’s presence at all.

“No, I haven’t been near you sister, man.”

“Better not fucking be. I hear that shit again, I’m gonna find you and break every one of your fucking teeth and make you swallow ‘em.” Mickey stands up straight, lifts his boot off the guy’s chest only to kick at his thigh. The guy twitches nervously, probably a little threatened by Mickey’s boot so close to his groin. Ian can’t blame him. “You bring your sad little gummy-worm dick anywhere near my sister, I won’t be so charitable, you understand?”

The guy gulps, nods shakily. “I understand. I swear I won’t. I’d never.”

He sounds so sniveling, so pathetic, that Ian has to roll his eyes. He starts to stand up slowly, unsure if he should just try to leave quietly. He wants to say something to Mickey, but he doesn’t know what, especially as Mickey seems to be otherwise occupied.

However, Ian’s movement seems to get the guy’s attention again, because he stops the stream of swearing and begging to point at Ian instead, completely oblivious.

“I was just going to teach that North Side faggot a lesson”, he says, forgetting his fear for a moment. There’s a hint of a hopeful smile on the guy’s lips, and he looks like he’s convinced Mickey will be pleased by this information. “Little prick needs to be put in his place.”

Mickey goes dangerously still. “Yeah?”

For maybe about two seconds, nobody seems to even breathe. Next Mickey is pulling the guy up by the collar of his shirt like the guy had done to Ian, and driving his fist into his face once, twice, three times.

The guy crumbles, goes limp in Mickey’s grip, and Mickey presses his face close. His voice is low when he speaks. “You wanna know what I think? I think you should mind your own fucking business. I think you should get the fuck out of here, real fucking fast, before I decide _you_ deserve a goddamn lesson.”

He throws the guy back onto the ground, and the guy scrambles up immediately, wiping at his bleeding and rapidly swelling face, practically runs off.

Ian stares, open-mouthed, at Mickey, who stands up and wipes his knuckles on his jeans. His gaze is directed carefully at the ground. Mickey’s brother hasn’t so much as blinked an eye during the whole altercation. Now he shakes his head lightly, nudges Mickey with a shoulder.

“You done? Can we get home already? I’m fucking starving.”

Without waiting for a response, he walks right past Ian, down the street. Mickey follows behind slowly, so that when his brother is a few paces ahead, back turned, he finally meets Ian’s eyes. There’s a little smile pulling at his lips, barely a trace of the previous anger left.

Ian can’t help but mirror Mickey’s pleased expression.

 _Holy shit_ , he mouths at Mickey, eyes wide. He feels giddy, stunned, almost nauseating excitement. No one has ever stood up for him like that, not once in his life. Because that’s absolutely what it was, Ian buys none of the bullshit about Mickey’s sister, doesn’t believe for a second that Mickey felt like fucking someone up today. Mickey wanted to _defend_ him. And maybe bashing a guy’s face in shouldn’t feel like the greatest thing anyone’s ever done to Ian but _holy shit_.

Mickey just grins, leaves with his brother, and Ian has to take a few seconds to remember how his legs work.

That night, when he takes a shower, he jerks off thinking about Mickey’s tattooed hands, the way his breathing turns rough when he’s angry, the almost shy, adorably out-of-place smile afterwards. He comes imagining it’s all for him, every part of Mickey.

“You, uh, planning on getting in trouble often?”

“I didn’t exactly plan it, Mickey”, Ian rolls his eyes. “Can’t help it if someone doesn’t like my mug.”

Mickey turns to him, scanning Ian’s face briefly. He’s grinning. “Yeah, I guess I can see their point.”

“Okay, fuck you”, Ian says and shoulder-checks him, hard, tries to fight off his own smile.

Mickey’s grin only widens. Fucker.

“Besides”, Ian continues breezily. “You did a pretty good job.”

“I won’t always just magically happen to be there when shit goes down, Gallagher”, Mickey tells him, unimpressed. “You’re lucky I was, and lucky that I had a problem with the asshole.”

“Oh, so you aren’t stalking me?” Ian asks, feigning surprised innocence. “Waiting around every corner to defend my honor?”

Mickey looks away, expression uncomfortable. “Fuck off, the guy was a prick, he needed to be taken down a notch. Not my job to keep you from getting your face bashed in.”

All of that’s true, probably, but Ian knows Mickey’s full of shit. He’s too dismissive, too eager to avert Ian’s eyes now to be completely honest. Besides, with the way Mickey’s anger flared up, the way he looked at Ian afterwards, there’s nothing that could make Ian believe that Mickey truly doesn’t give a shit. He decides not to push it, though. No use in getting Mickey’s hackles all the way up.

“Uh-huh”, Ian says instead, letting his tone indicate that he’s not fooled.

Mickey’s voice regains some of its teasing edge. “With that attitude, I might let you take a beatdown next time.” When Ian waves him off, chuckling, he continues: “I mean it, man, you’re gonna have to learn how to throw a punch if you’re planning on making it around here.”

“I know how to throw a punch.”

“ _Really._ ” The disbelief is evident in Mickey’s voice.

“Sure”, Ian shrugs. “I mean, I’m not a hardened criminal, but I can handle myself.”

Fighting is something he probably did a little too much when he was younger. He blames Lip for being a bad influence and a horrible role model. Predictably, his dad wasn’t all that happy, and the final solution came in the form of a punching bag he set up in the basement. Ian took some boxing classes too, years ago, before school and other hobbies became more important. So yeah, his technique might be a little rusty, but he has a solid right hook, and he still remembers one or two of the dirtier moves Lip taught him. Plus, he’s a hell of a lot stronger than he looks.

Mickey doesn’t appear to be convinced. “You can- Alright.” He takes a step back, spreads out his hands. “Show me then, tough guy.”

“What?”

“You’re fucking full of shit, that’s what”, Mickey says, way too confident. “Show me what you can do, punch me.”

Ian laughs, turns to him fully and crosses his arms. “No, why would I do that?”

“C’mon, if you think you can do it then do it.”

“I’m not punching you to prove a point, Mickey.”

“I’m right here, Gallagher, fucking punch me.”

“No.”

“You need me to bully you a little bit, get in the mood? Want me to call you a pussy or some-”

Mickey doesn’t get to finish, because Ian’s surging forwards. He’s never responded well to provocation.

Mickey’s arms are raised, he’s expecting to block a punch, but that’s not what Ian’s going for. He ducks down quickly, kneels, dodges Mickey’s hands and grabs him by the backs of his thighs while planting his own feet securely. Caught off guard, Mickey reaches for Ian’s shoulders, his back, tries to shove him away, but Ian’s hold is too firm and Mickey’s stance too unsure. Their height difference works for Ian’s advantage, and he sweeps Mickey up easily, throws him sideways onto the ground. Mickey groans out at the impact, a little noise of surprise and discomfort.

“What were you saying about me being a pussy?” Ian asks, not releasing Mickey’s legs, keeping him flat on his back just to be annoying. And maybe to keep touching Mickey a little bit longer because he likes how strong his thighs feel under Ian’s fingers.

Mickey stares up at him, chest heaving slightly. Ian’s a bit out of breath himself, for…several reasons. For maybe two seconds, Mickey’s face is so open, so unguarded, mouth slack with surprise, that Ian almost gives in and climbs fully on top of him, kisses him until both of their lips are numb. He wants to, so fucking bad he thinks he’s never wanted anything so much in the seventeen years he’s been alive.

Before anything like that can happen, Mickey’s huffing and shoving Ian off of him.

“Jesus Christ, what the _fuck_ was that, Gallagher?” Mickey pushes at him until he falls back into a sitting position. Mickey doesn’t stand up, either, but sits opposite Ian, looking somewhat grudgingly impressed.

“Told you I can handle myself”, Ian says, more than a little smug and nudges Mickey’s calf with his shoe.

Mickey flips him off, but he can’t be too mad, because he’s still sitting there with his legs half-tangled with Ian’s. “You got fucking lucky, bitch.”

“Okay, whatever you say”, Ian smiles. After a moment he continues: “Sure you don’t want me as protection for your next drug run?”

Disbelief and indignation flicker on Mickey’s face, followed by amusement, before he lunges at Ian, attempting to grab him by his coat and throw him down. Ian yells and tries to kick his feet from under him. They wrestle, shove, smack at each other, neither of them trying very hard, giggling like idiots until they’re both exhausted and lying on the grass, trying to catch their breath.

“Okay”, Mickey grunts, slaps at Ian’s arm weakly. “You can fucking handle yourself.”

There’s a smile in his voice, and there might be a bruise just under Ian’s ribs from Mickey’s sharp elbow. Ian stares up at the concrete-colored sky and he feels so good he has to laugh out loud.

“I’ve been thinking of getting a job”, Ian announces at the breakfast table.

Fiona, halfway through cutting Liam’s stack of pancakes into little pieces, pauses. “A job?”

“Yeah”, Ian focuses on pouring himself a glass of orange juice to avoid meeting her eyes. He’d guessed this suggestion wouldn’t be accepted without further questioning. “I live here now, right? I want to do my part with the food and the bills, you know.”

Fiona puts her fork down, and Ian can hear the frown in her voice. “Ian, you know you don’t have to do that.”

And that’s the thing. He doesn’t have to do anything, apparently, it’s fine for him to sit on his ass while his family works theirs off. He can’t stand being useless, and that’s exactly how he’s been feeling lately.

“Money isn’t an issue”, Fiona assures him, all motherly compassion.

That’s bullshit, too. Money is always an issue. Well, except for Ian, which only makes him feel more guilty, sitting here in their kitchen, eating pancakes he hasn’t worked for. Sure, he’s paying for himself, but what’s the use of that when he could do _more_? Even Debbie has her daycare system in the summers, and Carl is probably committing at least some petty theft to bring his share to the table.

“I’m a part of the family, right?” he insists, knows he’s getting defensive. It should be that simple. If he’s family, he has to do his part, needs to be held to the same standards. It’s like everyone thinks he can’t do the most basic shit, because, what, he grew in a different environment?

“Ian, of course you are. It’s-”

It’s Lip who interrupts. “We’re just saying, it’s fine. We’re not holding it against you. You wanna focus on school, or on doing a hundred push-ups every morning, you can.”

Ian could do without the jabbing, but he’s grateful for Lip’s input. He knows Ian well enough to know why Ian’s pressing the issue.

Ian takes a deep breath. “I know. I want to. I just want to help.”

“And we’re not gonna stop you”, Lip stands up, claps Ian on the shoulder and throws Fiona a look. “Right?”

“Of course not”, Fiona says. Her eyes are soft, like she wants to reach across the table and clasp Ian’s hand. Ian isn’t sure how to reply.

The moment is interrupted by Liam banging his little fists against his plastic chair, protesting the lack of progress Fiona is making with his pancakes. Even impatient, his expression is neutral; Ian swears he’s never seen the kid angry.

Ian grins at him, ruffles his head a little, gets up and gathers his own dishes to put them in the sink. He elbows Lip in the cramped kitchen, hopes he knows it means “thanks”. Lip might think that Ian doesn’t know how the world works (or _this world_ , at least), might think that he’s overconfident and clueless, but in the end, when something is important to Ian, he can count on Lip to have his back.

“Ian”, Fiona calls out when he’s already at the door, wrapping a scarf around his neck. Ian turns back to her. “I know I didn’t raise you, but… I’m real proud of you, alright? You’re a good kid.”

It makes something small and warm open up in Ian’s chest. “Thanks, Fi.”

When he steps out onto the porch, Lip is right behind him. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I have, uh. Business”, Lip tells him, buttoning up his coat, but his smirk gives him away.

“Oh, that kind of business”, Ian nods, smiling a little himself. “An early-morning booty-call, huh?”

“Maybe”, Lip says and kicks the grayish slush on the sidewalk. “You don’t tell me about your crazy romantic adventures, so why should I?”

“If I asked every girl you’ve ever been with, would a single one use the word ‘romantic’?”

Lip jostles him lightly. “You shut the fuck up, what do you know about it?” Then, after a moment of silence: “For the record, I think the job thing is a good idea. Fiona just doesn’t want you to feel like she’s making you do something.”

Ian huffs impatiently. He should’ve seen this coming. The conversation isn’t done until Lip lets you know what he thinks. “She’s not making me do anything.”

“I know. Like I said, it’s a good thing, that you want to. You’re doing it for family, and everyone’s gotta learn to work at some point, you know. But… you don’t have to prove anything.”

“That’s not what this is”, Ian says, a little irritated. And it’s not, at least for the most part, but who knows. Having a proper job could help his siblings understand that Ian is not, in fact, a complete idiot.

“Alright”, Lip holds up his hands in defense. “Just, find something safe and boring, alright? No illegal shit.”

Lip’s the one to talk. Like he hasn’t been taking SATs for other people and selling weed and booze from an ice-cream truck for years. Besides, he can’t honestly think Ian would put his future and education on the line by risking getting arrested over something like that.

Ian shoots him an unimpressed look. “How likely you think it is I’ll get murdered while stocking shelves at the corner store?”

Lip rolls his eyes in response. “I’m serious, Ian. You’re fucking smart but you don’t know how messed up it can get around here. You’ve gotta stay out of trouble.”

Not counting the encounter with the two meatheads, Ian thinks he’s been doing a pretty remarkable job, and if it’s up to him, Lip will never hear about that. Partly because bringing it up would also involve bringing up Mickey, and partly because Lip never wastes an opportunity to tell someone “I told you so”.

“Lip, come the fuck on. Like I haven’t learned a thing from hanging around you guys. I’m not clueless, I can look after myself.”

“That’s not exactly a lot of experience”, Lip argues, stopping completely, holding out a hand to get Ian to do the same. It feels condescending and annoying as fuck. “Look, it’s not only about the job. I know how you see the world. You can’t trust everyone, Ian, you don’t know if you’re safe. I want you to try to be safe, alright?”

Ian fixes his brother with a stern look. Again, he can’t help but think of Mickey and how not okay Lip would be with that whole situation. He can’t help but think of Mickey lying in the grass next to Ian and saying _you can fucking handle yourself_. Well, despite of what Lip might think, Ian _knows_ shit.

“I hear you”, he sighs. “Will you just…trust my fucking judgement?”

The expression on Lip’s face, his furrowed brows and the hard line of his mouth, tells Ian exactly what the answer to that question is.

Ian is at the bleachers before Mickey, which is unusual. He always goes during lunch, or right after school, like today. Mickey doesn’t have any strict daily routines, and he knows Ian’s, so it’s normal that Mickey’s already waiting for him when he arrives.

Not today, though. Mickey didn’t mention anything about not being able to make it, but it’s been twenty minutes, and Ian’s getting antsy. He doesn’t have Mickey’s number. He doesn’t even know where exactly Mickey _lives,_ except that it’s somewhere in the neighborhood.

He doesn’t need to, it turns out, because Mickey finally arrives when Ian’s been waiting for twenty-four minutes.

“Hey, where were you?” Ian shouts as soon as he spots the shape of Mickey behind the metal bars of the bleachers.

“Got held up”, Mickey grunts back.

Ian doesn’t get to question him further, because Mickey comes fully into view and Ian can barely stop himself from clamping a hand over his mouth.

“What the _fuck_ , Mickey?”

From about mid-thigh to below his knee, Mickey’s left leg is absolutely soaked in blood. The fabric of his jeans might be torn, but it’s honestly hard to tell, because there’s _so much blood_ , some on Mickey’s hands too, and the bottom of his shirt. Mickey seems unbothered, at least judging by his face, and at first Ian thinks the blood might not even be his. But no, Mickey’s definitely injured; he’s walking a little stiffly, favoring his right side just enough for it to be noticeable.

“What the hell happened?” Ian gestures wildly.

Mickey waves him off irritably. “Nothing, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Wh- Nothing? You’re bleeding out!”

At that, Mickey snorts. “Anyone ever tell you how fucking dramatic you are?”

Ian isn’t really amused. “Shut up. Tell me what happened.”

“You gotta pick one, Gallagher”, Mickey tells him and maneuvers himself into a sitting position onto the gravel. There’s a slight hitch in his breath, tightness in his jaw, which doesn’t ease Ian’s worry at all. He moves closer, kneels down to inspect Mickey’s leg.

“ _Mickey_.”

To his slight surprise, Mickey doesn’t argue further, just peeks at Ian’s desperate face for a moment. Then, to Ian’s horror, he says: “Got stabbed.”

“Stabbed? Jesus, how the fuck did that happen?” Ian’s voice has gone all high and strained. His hands hover over Mickey’s leg. He’s anxious to see how bad the damage is, but what the hell could he do about it? He doesn’t want to start prodding at a stab wound for nothing.

“Bad drug deal”, Mickey says, visibly uncomfortable with Ian’s concern. “Seriously, it’s nothing. Just a hitch, it happens. I’ve had worse.”

“Mickey, you were _stabbed_ ”, Ian repeats, like an idiot, panic only growing. He can’t understand how they’re not on the same page here.

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, a little bit. Hey, look, I’m in better shape than the other guys. I had Iggy with me, wasn’t even in a real danger.” Mickey gestures at his leg. “It’s fine, okay? It’s probably not deep, or there’d be a lot more blood. It’s gonna heal. Shit always fucking heals.”

The implication that Mickey’s possibly been stabbed before and will possibly be stabbed again in the future doesn’t really help, either. “Are you- You should at least go to a clinic or something, right?”

Mickey snorts again, which Ian should have expected, because it’s been established that Mickey’s a stubborn asshole. Ian kind of wants to slap him, and if Mickey wasn’t already injured, he wouldn’t hesitate.

“Fuck no”, Mickey says, starts digging inside his coat, presumably for a pack of smokes. “Gotta hit at least one organ before that.”

Taking a deep breath, Ian rubs at his face with both hands. The panic has settled into his throat and stomach, making him nauseous. Okay, so Mickey probably isn’t dying, but this isn’t fucking normal, and Ian’s kind of freaking out. It’s not even the injury itself, it’s the fact that something much worse could’ve easily happened. It’s _real_ , terrifyingly so. He can almost hear Lip’s voice in his head, warning him about how messed up things are. Except it’s not _Ian_ that’s in trouble, it’s Mickey, and somehow that’s infinitely scarier. This right here is physical proof of how dangerous life around here can be. Especially to Mickey, who does the shit that he does _every day_. It’s just a matter of time before someone aims their knife a little more accurately, or before someone _shoots_ him, Jesus Christ.

“Hey”, Mickey says, voice careful, almost reassuring. It’s such a strange tone for Mickey that Ian’s startled into looking up and meeting his eyes, panic forgotten. “Ian, relax. It’s fine.”

Mickey using his actual name distracts Ian further, and for a moment Mickey looks hesitant, like he’s going to do something even more outrageous, like put his hand on Ian’s shoulder. He doesn’t, though, just looks at Ian with something unreadable in his eyes. He’s here, he’s fine. For now, at least.

Ian stares back, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around Mickey, take him home, keep him there forever. “Would you”, he swallows. “Would you at least let me take a look at it?”

Mickey rolls his eyes but somehow, Ian knows he’s not going to refuse. “Fine, Christ.”

“Okay.” Ian stands up. Now he has a clear objective, something he can physically do, and it makes him feel infinitely better. This is something he can do to help Mickey. He can assess the damage, clean it up, maybe put his own mind at ease by making sure it’s truly not serious.

“Hey, where are you going?” Mickey frowns.

“I’m going to get something so I can clean it up. There should be a first aid kit at the school. Don’t move.”

Mickey holds up his blood-stained hands defensively. “Alright.”

Ian runs back to the school. Thankfully, the doors are still open, but there aren’t many people around. Ian’s never seen anyone use the first aid kit before, but if he has to take a guess, there’s going to be one in the science lab.

Turns out he’s right. By some miracle, the classroom door isn’t locked, either, and Ian slips in. On the wall at the back of the room, right next to the supply closet, there’s a little metal cabinet with a red cross in the middle. Quickly, Ian grabs what he can, shoves everything into the pockets of his coat. He’s not sure how much he will need, but better safe than sorry. Then, as fast as he can without looking suspicious, Ian sprints back down the hallway and across the schoolyard. When he gets to the bleachers, he’s a little out of breath.

Mickey’s sitting in the same spot, all relaxed like he’s having a fucking picnic. “Where’s the fire?”

Ian goes to him, kicks gently at his uninjured leg. He sits down and starts emptying his pockets. “Shut up. You’re my patient now, so better fucking behave.”

He doesn’t realize how weirdly sexual his teasing sounds until the words have already left his mouth. Immediately, he flushes, and hopes Mickey thinks it’s from his jog to the school and back. Now is definitely not the time to go there.

“That a threat?” Mickey quirks a brow, leans back casually. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Gallagher.”

Ian’s concern hasn’t dissipated entirely, but Mickey’s teasing comforts him. “Mouth off some more, maybe I’ll stab you again.” Ian waves the small scissors he grabbed for the purpose of cutting the leg of Mickey’s jeans open.

“Sure”, Mickey says as Ian settles closer, much closer than they usually sit, their legs pressed flush together. He leans down to see where the fabric is torn.

Tentatively, Ian puts a hand Mickey’s thigh, cautiously cuts a hole around the injury. The material has stuck to the wound, and Mickey twitches and hisses next to Ian’s ear as he carefully tugs it free, but doesn’t pull away.

Next, Ian pulls out a pack of antiseptic wipes. He hands one to Mickey so he can clean his red-stained hands.

“Gonna sting”, Ian murmurs pointlessly, mostly to fill the silence. The whole situation feels strangely intimate, and he doesn’t want Mickey to catch on to that. Mickey just grunts, balls up the wipe into his fist.

Ian cleans the wound and the area around it carefully, tries not to press too hard. Mickey barely reacts, but tenses when Ian wraps a hand around his knee to assess his work. To Ian’s relief, Mickey was right; the cut doesn’t look deep and is bleeding only sluggishly at this point. It does look painful, though, and Ian grinds his teeth in sympathy.

Mickey’s unmoving, and Ian’s close enough to feel him holding his breath. He’s not sure if it’s discomfort or something else. To relieve the tension, Ian slaps Mickey’s leg lightly.

“You’ll live.”

“Oh, thank God.” Mickey sounds sarcastic, but alongside it is the soft tone with which he’d said Ian’s name earlier, and _Christ_.

“I’m just going to”, Ian swallows, heart in his throat, hands too idle. He needs to occupy them before he does something awful, like look directly at Mickey when he’s this close, when he’s speaking to Ian like he’s telling secrets, sitting there like he doesn’t know how gorgeous he is. “I’m just going to wrap it up. How does it feel?”

Mickey wiggles his leg a little, bends his knee further. “Not too bad. Probably gonna scar, though. Swear I scar from getting a papercut.”

Ian hesitates. “You sure you don’t want to have it checked out? Maybe the school nurse is still in.”

“I’m good, man.”

Ian is willing to bet that whatever guys Mickey went up against weren’t too concerned with the cleanliness of their equipment, which means he’s still worried about the possibility of an infection. Some stitches wouldn’t hurt, either. But Ian has a strong feeling that spending time trying to convince Mickey to see any kind of medical professional would lead to absolutely nothing. This is the best he’s going to get right now. And since Mickey’s _had worse_ , Ian is going to have to trust his judgement.

Cringing slightly, Ian digs a large wound dressing out of his pocket, the kind that’s essentially a big plaster. He presses it into place meticulously, gently. He can’t help noticing the way Mickey goes carefully still every time Ian touches him.

“I got some bandage, too”, Ian offers as he sits back on his heels. “If you want, I can wrap-”

Mickey cracks a little smile. “Hey. Stop fucking fussing, you did a bang-up job. I’m all good.”

Ian falls quiet. Now he’s almost embarrassed about freaking out over a non-life-threatening injury. Mickey’s clearly tougher than that. He would certainly be more embarrassed if everything else wasn’t getting buried under the fact that Mickey’s actually putting effort into trying to reassure Ian; the way he’s joking and smiling and talking all soft. Even letting Ian take care of him, despite not being concerned in the least about it himself.

He knows they’re…something. Friends, at least. But knowing that Mickey cares enough to want him to feel better is nearly enough to figuratively knock Ian onto his ass. He has a feeling that it’s not exactly a side of Mickey that many people get to see. It’s not like Mickey’s not any of the things people assume he is, but he’s also a thousand others. Ian’s seen them, and he wants more. He wants to take his time and peel back every layer of bullshit and get to know all the hidden things about Mickey, the good and the bad.

Then Mickey’s hauling himself up and Ian’s musings are brought to an end.

“Wait, are you leaving? Are you going home?” he asks, probably more panicked than necessary.

“No”, Mickey says. “Come on, Gallagher, we’re going somewhere. And quit fucking looking at me like I’m about to die.”

Ian gapes at him for a second, before scrambling to stuff all the supplies back into his coat. He can return what he didn’t use later, now there’s something much more important to focus on. They’ve never gone anywhere besides the bleachers. Neither of them has never even brought up the idea of spending time anywhere else. And now Mickey’s _asking_. Well, more like telling, but Ian hardly has any objections.

Mickey leads them away from the football field, and at first, Ian is too thrilled by the idea of Mickey possibly sharing some secret, private space with him to even ask where it is they’re going. It’s only when they stop in front of a liquor store a couple blocks away that Ian starts to feel curious.

“I’m gonna grab us something”, Mickey explains at Ian’s questioning expression. “You know, painkiller.” He gestures at his leg, at the bandage poking through the giant hole in his jeans. “Also, you look like you need to get drunk more than I do.”

“Do you have a fake ID or something?” Ian asks. He could use a drink, and he feels like after getting stabbed he wouldn’t say no to a beer, either.

Mickey makes a face. “Fake ID? Who the fuck are you talking to? Dad knows the owner, they’re not gonna make me pay for shit.”

Of course. Ian suspects it’s more along the lines of “dad threatens the owner” or “the owner owes our family money”, but he lets it slide.

“Alright then, you fucking gangster”, Ian says, sounding way too affectionate.

Mickey just shakes his head and stalks across the street, towards the little store. His usual swagger is very much in place; if Ian didn’t know better, he could easily miss the slight, uncomfortable hitch in his step.

It’s not long until Mickey re-emerges, a six-pack of beer under his arm and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He grins at Ian from a distance and Ian’s heart gives a flip.

Mickey is very secretive about where they’re going, and whatever Ian imagines as their surroundings start to look more and more unfamiliar, it isn’t a run-down industrial area, huge, gray concrete blocks looming in every direction. Everything looks empty and hollow, almost ominous in the low winter light.

“Is this your secret hideaway?” Ian asks as they walk closer.

Mickey shoots him a sidelong glance. “Something like that.”

As it turns out, the buildings are abandoned. Mickey’s clearly a regular visitor because it takes them no time to find the door with a smashed deadbolt. Mickey leads them up the stairs to a surprisingly clean space with large windows. It’s too cold to go up to the roof; it’s almost the end of November, and even with their winter jackets, the wind would be freezing that high.

“I go up there all the time in the summer”, Mickey tells Ian. “That fucking sunset, man, you should see it.”

Suddenly Ian can’t wait for warm weather. He wouldn’t have imagined Mickey to be the type to appreciate sunsets, but now he wants nothing more than to watch as many of them with him as possible.

The place looks almost untouched, which indicates that not many people know about it, possibly not even Mickey’s brothers. It really is a secret hideaway. It’s not late yet, but the sky outside is steadily growing darker, and despite the sizeable windows the shadows are getting deeper.

They settle against the wall, into a spot best illuminated by the last of the light outside. Mickey wastes no time, immediately cracking open a can of beer and taking a long drink. Ian reaches to take one as well, shuffling as close to Mickey as he dares.

Ian’s tolerance for alcohol is shit compared to Mickey’s, so he takes it a little slower to avoid getting shitfaced alone and doing something horrible and embarrassing. In any case, pretty soon they’re both well on their way to tipsy, warm and relaxed, telling stupid stories and teasing each other.

After finishing his second beer, when his limbs are starting to feel pleasantly loose and the whiskey is half-empty, Ian reveals his plans about getting a job to Mickey, who thinks the idea of Ian working as a fry cook is infinitely funny.

“You gonna wear like a little apron? And a hairnet to go with that?”

“Okay, asshole. First of all, I’d look sexy as hell in a hairnet. Second, I _would_ have brought you free fries, sometimes, maybe, but”, he sniffs, trying to appear as deeply hurt as possible in his giddy, drunken stage. “It seems like that offer is off the table, since you keep being a dick.”

It makes Mickey smile wider. “Long as I get to see the hairnet.”

Ian’s resolve doesn’t last, and he laughs as well, punches Mickey on the arm and wrestles the bottle of whiskey away from him just to have an excuse to touch him some more, maybe wind him up a little. He takes a swig, cringing a bit at the taste.

Ian’s screwing the cork back on when Mickey speaks again, no longer teasing.

“You’re helping out your family, though, man. That’s something. I don’t think anyone in mine’s worked a day at an actual job, ever.”

“Me neither”, Ian admits and hands the bottle back. Mickey’s fingertips feel freezing against the back of his hand, and he’s reminded of the day they met, of Mickey scowling and shivering under the bleachers. “Never had to, but now I just feel kind of weird about it. Everyone in my family’s been pulling their weight since they were kids. So compared to that, I don’t know. I don’t wanna be some entitled North Side kid, afraid of getting my hands dirty.”

Mickey snorts. “You’re too fucking _eager_ to get your hands dirty.”

Ian watches Mickey tip his head back to take a drink, close his lips around the same spot as Ian. “Lip thinks I’m trying to prove something.”

“To yourself or to them?” Mickey asks, lowers the bottle and wipes a thumb over his bottom lip.

Everything he does is distracting as hell, and Ian is having a little trouble keeping his head in the game. Once Ian processes Mickey’s question, he realizes it’s a surprisingly insightful one; it’s something that has crossed his own mind as well.

“I don’t know. He means well, but he’s just…” Ian sucks on his lower lip thoughtfully for a few moments and releases a massive breath of frustration. “Such a _shithead_ about it, sometimes.”

Mickey honest-to-god giggles, a breathless and surprised sound, and tries to mask it by covering his mouth with his beer can, looking stupidly adorable while doing so. Ian knows he’s blushing like an idiot, face and neck warm despite the winter chill, and Mickey’s close enough that he has to notice, even in the low light.

“Believe me, I know”, Mickey says, still smiling but looking at his lap. “Prick used to write me English essays in exchange for weed and shit when I still was in school, always acted all high-and-mighty about it. Can’t imagine what it’d be like to _live_ with the guy.”

“Not always bad”, Ian admits. The booze is making him bolder and he can’t take his eyes off Mickey. “He wants to help me. But he thinks I can’t handle shit on my own. It’s like he knows I’ll screw up eventually and he’ll get to say ‘I told you so’.”

Mickey looks at him, then, tilts his head back against the concrete wall. With an air of finality, he says: “Shithead.”

It’s not that funny, but everything feels bright and magnified with Mickey sitting next to him and some alcohol in his system, and Ian bursts into a fit of giggles.

When his laugher has subsided, Ian sighs again. He sounds almost ridiculously mournful. “Everyone’s just waiting for me to do something stupid.”

“Well”, Mickey says and takes a swig of his beer. “You’re hanging out with me. Don’t get much stupider than that.”

It brings Ian’s thoughts back to few hours earlier when he was patching Mickey up under the bleachers and he feels himself deflate a little more.

“Maybe I am too confident. Maybe I don’t know anything. Almost had a stroke today over that shit.” He points to Mickey’s leg. Mickey knows South Side; he isn’t disillusioned or innocent and he sure as hell will be honest with Ian and tell him if he’s being stupid. “I mean, what d’you think? Am I too… naïve or optimistic or whatever?

Mickey’s caught off guard, unsure. He rubs a hand over his eyes like he doesn’t want to answer that question at all. Then he sets his beer can down, frowns as if he’s willing himself to be sober and concentrated. Suddenly, Ian’s half-afraid of what he’s going to say.

“Look”, Mickey begins quietly after a while, not quite looking at Ian. “You ain’t going anywhere by worrying over that crap. You know yourself better than your shithead brother does, you know what you can do. What’s it matter what anyone else thinks? Who the fuck cares how tough or scary you are, huh? You got something going on for you, you’re smart, and like… you plan shit and you do it. That shit matters in real life, not just the goddamn South Side, so…”

He trails off for a minute, visibly uncomfortable and there is _no way_ Ian would be hearing this if Mickey hadn’t already chugged down three beers and a decent amount of whiskey.

“I think you’re good, you know”, Mickey finally concludes. He’s still very pointedly not looking at Ian, picking at the threads around the hole in his jeans. “’Sides, you were optimistic enough to think I wouldn’t beat the shit out of you, and I didn’t, and here we are. So gotta be something special ‘bout you, Gallagher.”

The words are accompanied by a small, shy, blink-and-you-miss-it quirk of mouth, and Ian’s too drunk to handle this. He wants to say he knows what it means that Mickey goes tense every time Ian touches him. That his voice is quiet and sincere when he says he thinks Ian is smart, that now he’s nervous and quiet and nearly holding his breath.

The thing is, Mickey’s not looking at him and still Ian still feels it so sudden and powerful it explodes through his nervous system; someone _sees_ him. Someone sees Ian and has no expectations disguised as advice. Someone sees Ian and doesn’t try to assign him a nonexistent role.

For a moment, his breath is stuck in his lungs, and he _has_ to touch Mickey. His hand flies out, grabs Mickey’s elbow too hard, probably, and Mickey’s eyes snap to his. Ian stares at him hard, his vision blurry with the sudden flood of emotion.

“Are you-” Ian starts, feels like he’s about to choke, or maybe start laughing again. “Do you mean that?”

And Mickey’s so close, _so close_ , breath loud in the quiet air. He swallows, and there’s something like fear in his eyes. The question was pointless, Ian knows. He knows Mickey means it, because you don’t look this scared unless you’re telling the truth.

“Yeah”, Mickey whispers. His mouth is shaping around words but otherwise he’s unmoving. Ian’s hand is still wrapped around his elbow, and he imagines he can feel Mickey’s pulse even through the layers of clothes.

Ian waits. For what, he doesn’t know.

“You, uh”, Mickey continues, looking like the eye contact is getting painful. “Wanted to know me, even…”

 _Even when you knew who I was_ , Ian completes the sentence in his head.

Mickey’s voice gets even quieter, if possible, and it’s soft and somehow incredibly vulnerable. “You gave me your coat.”

That’s it. Ian doesn’t know how it happens, but suddenly he isn’t sitting beside Mickey anymore, but on his knees in front of him, pressing Mickey tight against the concrete wall and crashing their mouths together. Mickey makes a little noise in the back of his throat, pushes forward to meet Ian without hesitation.

Ian finally lets go of Mickey’s arm to instead touch his face, his hair, whatever parts he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, before. He tangles his fingers into Mickey’s hair, pulls sharply, just a little, and Mickey moans into the kiss, a small, needy sound that makes Ian’s entire body shiver.

It’s so fucking hot, Ian honestly can’t remember feeling like this during any of his previous sexual encounters, and they’re only _kissing_ , but it’s _so fucking hot_ , and Ian has to press closer, has to crowd between Mickey’s legs until there’s absolutely no space between them and Mickey is trapped between Ian’s body and the wall.

Mickey isn’t too shy, either. He wrenches his arms free from between their bodies, wraps one around Ian’s body. His other hand lands on the back of Ian’s neck to pull him down to meet his lips, fingers biting into Ian’s skin like he’s making sure Ian won’t escape.

Mickey’s legs tighten around Ian’s when Ian pulls at his lower lip with his teeth. He tastes like beer and whiskey and that one cigarette he smoked earlier, and doesn’t resist when Ian licks into his mouth, just hums, breathless and pleased.

Despite the chill in the air, Ian is already sweating under his coat. He pulls back a bit to shrug it off, tries to stay as close to Mickey as possible, breathing shakily into the tight space between them. Mickey’s trying to do the same, and for a while they’re just wriggling out of their winter clothing and staring at each other with wide eyes, shivering with arousal. Mickey looks sort of shaken, in a good way. His hair is all messed up from Ian running his fingers through it, lips red and bitten. He’s goddamn beautiful, his nose and eyebrows and everything, and Ian could look at him forever.

“Fuck”, Mickey whispers, and then his hands are on Ian’s face, pulling him back in.

Well, maybe forever when his dick isn’t this hard anymore.

Ian meets Mickey’s lips again eagerly, gives him little open-mouthed pecks before Mickey loses his patience and bites Ian’s lip sharply. Ian gasps and it turns into a laugh halfway through. He runs his hands further down Mickey’s body, feels his sides, legs, steering away from the bandage on the left one.

When his hands find their way to Mickey’s inner thighs, solid and strong beneath his palms, Ian forces himself to pull back again. He knows what he wants, and Mickey seems to be on the same page, because he meets Ian’s eyes, looking like he’s about to come apart.

In under two seconds, their hands are working each other’s belts open. There’s no way Ian can do this blindly when he’s this horny and drunk (on both alcohol and Mickey, which would be disgustingly cheesy if it wasn’t so true), so he presses their foreheads together to look down at their laps. Mickey’s tattooed fingers fumbling to open the button of Ian’s jeans might be one of the best things he’s ever seen.

“Yeah, fuck”, Mickey groans and tugs Ian’s jeans and boxers down enough to pull out his dick, wrap a firm hand around it.

Ian moans shakily and returns the favor. It’s not the best time to fully appreciate what he’s seeing, but he’s already kind of addicted, knows he wants to do this in full daylight, get Mickey naked and under him, make him feel good and learn everything about him in this sense, as well.

Ian takes a few seconds to memorize how they look in each other’s hands (Mickey’s hand is smaller than his, another observation that sends a jolt down Ian’s spine), something he will definitely imagine later, and they’re kissing again, gripping at each other tightly.

They’re both too worked up to drag it out. Ian’s practically trapped between Mickey’s legs, and it’s difficult to do this smoothly with how they’re squished together. There’s barely enough space for Ian to twist his wrist like he usually does, but he’s not willing to move away.

“Mick”, Ian pants in between kisses. “Mickey, fuck, that’s fucking good.”

And it is. Mickey’s hand is warm and rough, he strokes Ian fervently, like he loves it, moans and curses to let Ian know how good he feels. They’re both close to the edge already, Ian can tell by the way their kisses become uncoordinated and sloppy, and he picks up the pace, relishes how Mickey’s fingers tighten on his shoulder.

“Ian”, Mickey sighs, and Ian’s stomach swoops at the sound of his name from Mickey’s lips. “ _Oh_. Fucking want this inside me.”

It’s what makes Ian come. He gasps soundlessly, impulsively bites Mickey’s jawline as he shivers through it. Mickey follows close behind with a stuttering breath, spilling into Ian’s hand.

They slump together as they’re coming down, both panting like they ran a goddamn marathon. Ian wipes his hand carelessly on his t-shirt, and it takes about all the energy he has left. They’re too fucked out and breathless to continue kissing, but Ian can’t keep away from Mickey’s face, licks the side of his mouth, his lower lip, for no other reason than wanting to.

Their heavy breathing echoes in the empty room, and Ian feels spent, exhausted, relieved. He isn’t sure how many minutes pass, but he could happily stay right here on top of Mickey, sweaty and gross and both their dicks practically hanging out. He could burrow his face into Mickey’s neck and drift off, let Mickey wrap his arms around Ian and press his face into Ian’s hair.

Judging by the way Mickey’s tensing under him, none of that is going to happen; he’s barely breathing, completely silent, body too stiff and uncomfortable for someone who just had an orgasm.

Ian has no idea what’s on Mickey’s mind, but as his thoughts clear, doubt starts slowly creeping in. The afterglow is fading quickly, the cold air on his sweaty skin making him shiver. He feels insanely sober compared to only few minutes ago.

Detangling himself from the body under him, putting distance between them but not backing away entirely, Ian peeks at Mickey’s face. One look confirms that his concerns aren’t entirely unfounded.

Mickey isn’t looking back at him. He’s staring past him with wild eyes, over Ian’s shoulder at the wall behind him. His mouth is a thin hard line, jaw tense like he’s clenching his teeth so hard it hurts. The healthy, pinkish flush is draining from his cheeks.

“Mickey?” Ian tries, unsure how to navigate this.

A moment ago, he was light-headed with joy and relief, and now there’s a strange, sickish feeling at the bottom of his stomach. They were touching each other with the same desperate fervor, and now Ian doesn’t know where they stand. Mickey’s putting up a wall he can’t see, doesn’t know how to begin to take down.

He reaches up to brush his fingers against Mickey’s cheek. “Mick, you okay?”

The touch jolts Mickey to life. He jerks back and his eyes snap to Ian’s. Ian tries to not let it feel like a rejection, but the weight in his stomach gets a bit heavier. This is not how it was supposed to go at all.

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but he swallows, his mouth works like he wants to, like maybe he can’t get the words out. When Ian leans back, gives him space, he looks away again and fumbles to tuck himself back into his pants. It takes longer than it should because his hands are shaking.

Ian does the same. Then he just watches, helpless, as Mickey scrambles up on uneven legs, grabs his coat without even glancing in Ian’s direction. A new panic is rapidly filling Ian’s lungs, completely different but eerily similar from the one he felt when faced with the possibility of Mickey bleeding to death in front of him. Shit.

Ian gets on his feet. “Mickey, wait.”

Mickey pauses, gaze fixed somewhere around Ian’s knees.

“I have to”, he swallows, backing up slowly. “I’m gonna-” He shakes his head, an almost invisible gesture, and turns to go.

Ian steps forward, grabs Mickey’s arm. He can’t let him leave, not like this.

“Please.” It sounds weak and desperate. “Wait.”

Mickey doesn’t. He practically rips his arm away from Ian, his whole body reacting like he’s been burned, and for a moment he’s sure Mickey’s going to hit him. He doesn’t do that either.

“Don’t”, Mickey says, and steps back, as if he’s trying to put a safe distance between himself and Ian. He shifts uneasily and clenches the coat tighter against his body. “I’ll just-” He shakes his head again, and it’s tense, nervous. “Later.”

Then he’s gone, and Ian’s left standing in the near-dark, hollow room. The beating of his heart is louder than the wind outside.

Mickey doesn’t show up to the bleachers the next day. Ian isn’t exactly surprised, but the dread and disappointment swirling inside him only worsen. He doesn’t want to consider the possibility of never seeing Mickey again, of losing him, both his friendship and the promise of whatever it is that happened between them.

 _Maybe he only needs time_ , Ian tries to tell himself, _maybe I just need to wait_.

He’s never been any good at waiting, though. He knows what he wants, and his every instinct is yelling at him to go after it. Besides, now he knows Mickey wants him as well, Mickey kissed him, touched him, wanted it as bad as Ian, and they could _do that again_. They could do more. In fact, now that he’s got a taste, Ian’s imagination is running fucking wild, even worse than before, mind filled with everything he wants to do with Mickey, _to_ Mickey.

So, Ian is about two seconds away from saying “fuck it” and go banging on Mickey’s door like some desperate asshole. It wouldn’t be the smartest move, probably, considering the freak-out last night ended in. There’s the looming fear underneath the desperation, the possibility of Mickey telling him it was nothing, it meant nothing, and he never wants to see Ian again.

Obviously, Mickey’s gay, or bi, or something. He’s into Ian, no doubt. He’s also deep in the closet, and with his reputation and the shit his family does, Ian isn’t surprised. He’s not naïve enough to think you can go around waving rainbow flags wherever you want in this neighborhood, especially if you’re a part of the South Side’s most notorious family of criminals.

It just fucking sucks, because there’s a real, horrible possibility of Mickey ditching him completely in order to protect himself, to keep his reputation.

Ian decides to give it a few more days.

He caves on a Thursday. It’s been nearly a week, and Ian hasn’t seen Mickey once, not even in passing. His family has noticed his restlessness, and every time Lip jabs him with an elbow and a sly comment about _boy troubles_ , Ian has to grind his teeth to keep from punching him in the face.

He and Lip are alone in the kitchen, which, good, because Ian really doesn’t need an audience for this. Lip’s finishing up an essay, probably for someone else. Ian is standing behind the counter, waiting for his bread to toast and trying to think of a way to ask this as inconspicuously as possible.

“So, you know where Mickey Milkovich lives?” is what he settles on, voice weirdly high, and does his best to look Lip in the eye.

Lip raises his head from the paper, and his suspicious frown tells Ian that he wasn’t too successful. So much for discretion.

“Mickey Milkovich?” Lip echoes. “Why?”

Ian shrugs and wishes he’d thought of an explanation, even a bad one. Lip wouldn’t have bought it, but at least the situation would have been significantly less awkward.

“You aren’t… buying drugs from the Milkoviches, right?” Lip turns fully towards Ian, concern creeping into his voice. “‘Cause that’s seriously fucking stupid.”

The toaster clicks, and Ian is grateful for the excuse to turn his attention elsewhere.

“I’m not buying from them.” He busies himself with picking up a butter knife. “Give me some credit.”

Lip’s eyes narrow. “Then what business could you possibly have with Mickey Milkovich? I’m pretty fucking sure you guys don’t have choir practice together.”

Ian wills himself not to stab the piece of toast he’s holding. He waits for Lip to catch on, because he will, eventually. At this point, Ian’s too desperate to care.

“Nothing. It’s not important. Come on.”

There’s a stretch of silence, and Ian recognizes the exact moment Lip realizes what’s going on.

“No.”

There it is.

“What”, Ian says, keeping his face carefully blank.

“Is- You’re- _No_.”

Ian waits.

“You’re crushing on _him_?” Lip asks. Ian’s never seen him this stunned. Unfortunately, his shock doesn’t slow him down at all, and Ian doesn’t get chance to argue. “Ian, _Jesus_ , you’re not this stupid. He’ll beat your ass as soon as he catches you looking, what the _fuck_? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Ian sighs. “Lip-”

“No, but what the fuck? How do you even know him?”

“Alright, you need to calm the fuck down.”

“What, and let you get yourself killed? You even fucking listen to me? You couldn’t have picked anyone worse, how do you even- Trust me, he ever even suspects you’re gay, you’ll be in serious shit, you-”

“Well”, Ian slams the knife he’s holding onto the table. “Considering he had my dick in his hand less than a week ago, I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that he’s just as gay.”

Ian has to take it back; _this_ is the most stunned he’s ever seen Lip; body perfectly still, half out of his chair already, eyebrows near his hairline, mouth hanging open. It is fucking _hilarious_ , and in any other situation Ian would take immense pleasure in it. Right now, he can’t even have that.

“Ian, what the _hell_ is going on?”

Ian opens his mouth, closes it. Shrugs one shoulder. He thinks he did a pretty good job summarizing it. The part Lip gets to know about, anyway. Ian sure as hell isn’t telling him about the weeks they hung out at the bleachers, the time Ian spent quite literally pining after a boy. It feels private, a secret thing only for Ian to know and remember. And for Mickey, if he ever wants to see Ian again.

Lip shakes his head. He looks like he still has about a thousand questions, and Ian has no desire to answer any of them.

“It’s a long story, alright? Are you going to fucking tell me or not?”

It’s already dark when Ian steps outside, mind made up and stomach churning with anxiety. Despite Lip’s numerous warnings and less than enthusiastic assistance, he can’t _not_ at least try to see Mickey. He can’t stand not knowing.

He’s going. He’s marching straight to the Milkovich house and praying it’ll be Mickey, not one of his brothers, that answers the door.

He doesn’t get far, because as soon as he reaches the bottom of the steps, he realizes there is someone standing just outside the porch. Leaning against the metal fence, a hunched figure wrapped in a big winter coat and a thick scarf, the cherry of a cigarette glowing like a beacon.

It’s Mickey. Ian’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Hey”, Ian says, breathless, as he comes to a stop.

Mickey’s face is tight, voice quiet. “Hey.”

Ian falters. The important words are stuck in his throat.

“How’s your- How’s your leg?”

“’S fine.”

 _This is it_ , Ian thinks, watching Mickey’s grim expression. _It’s over. At least he was considerate enough to come say it in person._

“Let’s walk.”

Ian blinks. “What?”

“Come on, Gallagher”, Mickey doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes off towards the tracks, seemingly confident that Ian will follow.

Ian does, confused but not yet daring to be relieved.

They walk in silence, drifting further from the neighborhood. Ian is itching to speak, but the fact that Mickey was waiting for him means that there’s something Mickey wants to say, maybe not as simple as _stay the fuck away from me_.

Mickey doesn’t utter a word until his cigarette is finished. He flicks the butt to the side and stops completely, stuffs his hands into his pockets. They’re alone, at the edge of an empty playground, and the quiet stretches on for what feels like lightyears.

“Dad took me to my first fag-bash when I was eleven.”

Ian can barely stop himself from flinching. Mickey’s words aren’t loud, but somehow, they manage to sound like gunshots.

“Me and two of his friends. Made me watch while they kicked the shit out of some guy for…” he breathes sharply through his nose. “Fucking laughed about it, too. Told me I was learning to be a real man. Don’t know who the guy was. Don’t know what happened to him.”

Ian stands still, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Wasn’t the last time”, Mickey rubs a palm across his face. There’s a barely noticeable tremor in his voice. “I was, uh. Fucking terrified, every time, thought it meant he knew about me, somehow. Just kept waiting for it to be me one day.”

Ian’s aching to say something, maybe yell how fucked up it all is, but he can’t, not yet. Mickey isn’t finished.

He looks straight at Ian, despite his obvious discomfort. “I freaked out. I don’t usually… I gotta be careful, it could still be me.”

“Mickey”, Ian’s voice is a whisper. He wants to reach out and touch, but he still isn’t completely certain where this is leading.

“Fuck”, Mickey grits out, looking pained. His shoulders are rigid, and Ian can’t handle the thought of him running away again.

Ian wants to tell him _sorry_ , tell him _I won’t let it be you_ , but he knows Mickey wouldn’t let him. And who the hell is Ian to make that kind of promises?

“Okay”, he just says, hopes Mickey hears him through the lonely word, hears all of it.

Mickey’s face twists. “Gallagher-”

“It’s okay”, Ian takes half a step forward. His hand shoots out, hovering and inch from Mickey’s shoulder, a steadying gesture, fucking aching, _aching_ to close the distance. “I get it. I mean I don’t, but- I get it.

It seems to calm Mickey down some, ease the line of his shoulders. He doesn’t try to move out of reach, and Ian doesn’t try to get closer. He lets his arm fall to his side, waits, holds his breath.

“I gotta be more careful”, Mickey sniffs, shakes his head. “All the shit I said…”

He means the things he said about Ian, the real, honest words of encouragement. He means the millisecond of opening himself up in return. Ian can tell that’s what freaks Mickey out more than the mutual handjobs.

“You saying you didn’t mean it?”

Mickey’s silence tells him that’s not what he’s saying at all. Even so, he looks like he isn’t sure he can convince himself to do all that again, either.

“I don’t want that to be it”, Ian insists, because he has to. Mickey needs to hear what he wants, how goddamn important it is. “I wanna see you again. We have fucking fun together, I know it.” Every word comes out sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he feels. “Don’t fucking tell me I’m wrong. You wanna see me again, too.”

Mickey looks sort of startled, like the conversation has been thrown off course for him. He isn’t leaving, though. A thumb comes up to rub the side of his mouth, a nervous gesture. He regards Ian from under furrowed brows, silent and careful.

“You’re not a complete douchebag, I guess”, he says eventually. It’s meant to be a joke, something casual, but it falls flat. Mickey’s eyes betray his earnestness. “Not like I got a ton of friends, so.”

And that’s… A lot, actually. Mickey doesn’t say what he means, but it’s not too difficult to read between the lines once you’re close enough to do so. Ian is. He _sees_ Mickey, like Mickey sees him.

Despite the lingering worry, despite his heart beating in his throat, Ian’s mouth quirks. “Friends?”

“Fuck off”, Mickey blows out a breath. He still looks uncomfortable, but not entirely in a bad way. Maybe he doesn’t hate the idea of Ian seeing him. “Or… You fucking know what I mean.”

It’s true, no doubt, that Mickey doesn’t have a ton of friends. Ian imagines it’s not that easy to get to know people when everybody’s afraid of you. Mickey doesn’t seem to mind that, usually, but Ian wonders if it gets lonely sometimes. He wonders if he can make it a little less so.

“I know what you mean.”

“I can’t be…” Mickey gestures vaguely. “I won’t hold your hand. I’m not gonna take you to fucking prom.”

With nervous, cagey words, Mickey’s trying to make a promise. A small one, but it’s a promise, it’s a start.

“Hey”, Ian hurries to reassure him. “I know. I’m not asking for that. I’ve been pretty cool with what we’ve been doing so far.”

Mickey looks up, straight at him, naked hope and fear, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

“Although”, Ian continues, slow and smiling. “I seem to remember there was something extra nice about last time.”

Just like that, the tension is broken. Mickey snorts, a choppy, relieved sound. “Alright, asshole.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah, fuck”, Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not perfectly relaxed, but he’s letting himself breathe. “Alright.”

Something’s bubbling in Ian’s stomach, and this time, it isn’t dread. He wants to tug Mickey closer by his worn-out scarf, kiss him again to make sure he doesn’t forget what his lips taste like.

“Does that mean we’re picking up from where we left off?”

“Christ, Gallagher”, Mickey’s face is less guarded, and Ian counts it as a win. “I- shit. Guess it does. Yeah.”

“I have a first name, too”, Ian says. He can’t quite keep the giddiness out of his voice. “You should try using it more often.”

As much as it pains him, Ian needs to let Mickey go home, process this. He has to trust him not to freak out again. He has to trust Mickey to come back.

“Tomorrow?”

Quickly, Mickey looks around, and there it is, the barely-there touch, Mickey’s fingers around Ian’s forearm before he’s backing away. “Yeah, tomorrow. See you, Ian Gallagher.”

Ian watches him leave for the second time in a week. He thinks about the promises Mickey makes with careful touches, with small words, and he knows he’s coming back.

Lip comes home after midnight. Ian is staring up at the ceiling, fully clothed on top of the covers when he hears his brother stomping up the stairs. He can’t sleep; everything inside him is buzzing with warmth and happiness.

“Holy fuck”, Lip says when he enters the bedroom. “You’re still alive.”

“Yep.”

Lip makes an impatient gesture. It translates to _so what the hell happened?_

“Well”, Ian can’t keep the smile off his face. “We’re all good now. We talked things out.”

“You talked-”, Lip cuts himself off, disbelieving. “Tell me how the fuck does something like this happen to you?”

Ian props himself up onto his elbows. He’s sure he looks exactly as smug as he feels. “Hm. Must be because of my optimism and my open personality.”

Lip narrows his eyes.

“Seems like I was _right_ all along, and an _amazing_ judge of character.”

“Alright, fuck you”, Lip throws his hands up.

As he kicks off his shoes, rummages through the drawer for a change of clothes, Ian continues. “It’s okay, you can say it. ‘You were right, Ian.’”

The only answer he receives is a middle finger, but it lacks feeling. Lip’s pissed that he was wrong, but Ian can tell he’s relieved things worked out, even genuinely pleased by Ian’s happiness.

Lip turns to go and heads towards the bathroom. Ian, smiling wide and feeling victorious, follows him out into the hallway. “You think it’s safe for me to get that job now?

The bathroom door slams shut in front of his face. Ian laughs and speaks into the crack between the door and the wall. “Maybe he can walk me home every night. Or actually, he did say that I can probably handle myself.”

The door opens just a crack, and Lip’s face appears. “For the record, you’re still a moron and I’m never going to change my mind, but.” he rolls his eyes, and there might be a hint of a smile on his lips. “Congratulations for finding the apparently decent one in a family of homophobes and criminals. Now, take your smug face the fuck out of here and let me take a shower.”

The door bangs shut again. Inside, the water turns on, the only sound in the usually noisy house, and Ian laughs quietly. _Lip_ , his arrogant smart-ass of a brother just practically admitted he was wrong. Ian’s seeing Mickey again tomorrow. Right now, despite the bleak winter, the rapidly approaching December, things seem awfully bright.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent an unholy amount of time on this, because I have the attention span of a fruit fly. I really grew attached to this AU, and I kind of want to make it into a series, but for now I'm all out of ideas lol
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](https://farfromohio.tumblr.com/) , say hi!


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